Neil Diamond, 84, Sang for the First Time in Years — and Barbra Streisand Held Him Up Until the Last Note

On a hushed November evening in 2025, the lights of the Dolby Theatre dimmed, and two living legends did something no one believed would ever happen again: they brought Neil Diamond back to life with nothing but a piano, a trembling voice, and a friendship older than most people in the room.

He hadn’t performed live since Parkinson’s stole the steadiness from his hands in 2018, and the certainty from his voice soon after.
Neil Diamond, 84, white-haired, frail, walked onstage leaning on a cane and Barbra Streisand’s arm. The audience of 3,400—invited friends, family, and a few stunned journalists—didn’t cheer at first. They simply held their breath. When Neil sat at the grand piano, fingers hovering uncertainly over the keys, Barbra stood beside him in a simple black dress, one hand resting gently on his shoulder like she had done it a thousand times before.

The song was “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers,” the duet that made them immortal in 1978.
Neil began alone, voice softer than anyone remembered, cracking on the high notes, pausing to breathe where he never used to. “You don’t bring me flowers… anymore…” Each word shook, but each word was there. The theatre was so quiet you could hear his wedding ring tap the keys. Then Barbra joined, not to carry him, but to walk beside him, matching his fragile tempo note for fragile note. When Neil’s voice faltered on “when you’re near,” she simply waited, eyes locked on his, until he found the next line.

Halfway through, the impossible happened: his voice steadied, grew warmer, almost youthful, as if the music itself was medicine.
By the bridge, tears were streaming down both their faces, but they never looked away from each other. When they reached the final “You don’t sing me love songs anymore,” Neil’s last note hung in the air like a prayer. Barbra held the silence for three full beats, then leaned down and kissed the top of his head. The theatre erupted, but it felt less like applause and more like a collective exhale after holding its breath for seven years.

Backstage, Neil could barely speak.
He managed only six words to Barbra: “I thought I’d forgotten how.” She answered, “You never forgot. You just waited for the right person to remind you.” Their embrace lasted so long that crew members pretended to look busy so they wouldn’t interrupt.

The performance was never meant for the public; it was a private tribute for the opening of the Streisand-Diamond Music Health Wing at Cedars-Sinai, a center for neurological disease and music therapy.
But someone recorded it on a phone from the wings. Within hours the grainy clip was everywhere—120 million views and climbing. Comments are a river of tears: “I’m 62 and just watched my childhood come back to life.” “Parkinson’s took his body but not his soul.” “Barbra didn’t sing with him—she carried him on her voice.”

Neil has no plans for a comeback.
He told a friend, “One song was enough. I got to say goodbye the way I always wanted—with her.” Barbra, eyes still red days later, simply said, “We didn’t perform. We remembered.”

On a night when medicine met miracle,
two old friends proved that some duets aren’t about perfection.
They’re about showing up, shaking and all,
and letting love hold the note when your voice can’t.

Neil Diamond sang again.
Barbra Streisand made sure the world heard it.
And somewhere, a thousand Parkinson’s patients who thought their music was gone
just got it back.